LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 845, 9 March 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A NIGHT OF EMOTIONS.

J'.Y DUDLEY WINTHKOP MOOEE. ( Concluded.) ‘Bloused Saint Patrick, it’s mnrther, it’s a murther,’ said tbe voice. ‘ I’m kilt, pen ’my soul, I’m finished !’ ‘ Gracious me !’ I exclaimed, ‘ it’s Mike ! ’ But I did not know where to look for him. His monologue commenced anew. ‘ What have you done, ye baste ? Did I ever see the likes o’ such behavior ! Do ye think the Lord will be helpin’ ye 1 Go on, you’re but a sinner, and you’ll be burned. Haven’t ye done enough in your life, but ye must be after astealin’ o’ the corpses ! Yes, the Lord ’ll give it to ye right hot, and when ye’re dead, ye’ll be treated like that poor child, yo murtherin’ wretch ! Oh !by mo soul, am I kill’t or drownded V’ It seemed to me as though the struggle in the water had resumed. The eloquent orator had paused. He began again: * It’s cauld here, by Saint Patrick ! What a bath ! Oh I murther, by me soul, what a bath 1’

‘ Mike ! Mike !’ I called, softly. Profound silence. ‘ Mike, answer, what is the matter with you ? Where are you ?’ He did not answer me, but continued to address himself.

‘Yes, I’m kill’t, dead, murthered, an’ that’s all !’

‘ Mike, I say, listen, answer !’ ‘Oh ! “JMike ! Mike!” ye can cry as much as ye like—go to the divil; I’ll be hanged if I spake wid ye !’ ‘ Mike, you fool, it is I.’ *Oh ! me swate gintleman, it’s ye, is it ? Faith, in it yerself ! Well, are ye kill’t ? W hat has become o’ ye ? Where are the others, in prison ?’ ‘ But you, Mike, what on earth are you doing there V and where are you ?’ ‘ A bath, a little bath, yer honor !’ A few yards from us we could hear the sound of a struggle. I distinguished the voice of If most calling for help. The voice increased. I felt my way ahead, Mike, who had fallen into an open grave, seized my foot; 1 assisted him out of his hath, and we proceeded toward the spot from whence we had heard the voice.

Beneath the vague light of the moon, which had just reappeared, we discovered two men engaged in a struggle, hand to hand. They were rolling over one another without uttering a word, and wore endeavouring to clutch each other’s throat.

When the last cloud vanished before the moon, whom do you think I recognised ? Our coachman, whose fat and chubby face was

pale with terror. He was fighting furiously with Ernest.

The poor coachman, surprised at our absence, had disobeyed orders, left his coach, and, on hearing a noise in the cemetery, had scaled the wall and groped his way toward us It was him we had seen gliding along the wall; it was his shadow we had mistaken for another man. When he had almost reached us he had called to us, and we had begun to run like fools. Thinking he had fallen into a den of thieves, he also had taken to flight, and sought refuge behind a tomb. Unfortunately, the retreat he had chosen was already occupied by Ernest. They encountered each other, and without knowing why, began to flourish their fists in deadly combat. Both bore the marks of rough usage. As for poor Mike, his romance was none the less painful. He had followed me at the top of his speed, and had fallen, as I have said, in a grave filled with water. The poor fellow remained there, with his feet imbedded in the heavy clay, not daring to raise his voice for fear of being discovered.

Merval and Cone were not long in putting in their appearance, when they discovered the mistake that had been made—and our little band once more resumed work. The coffin was lowered into the grave again and covered with the earth.

After overcoming so many calamities and obstacles, we were not yet free of embarrass ments. It was no easy matter to the subject over the wall, and, when we reached the spot where we had lefc the coach, we found it overturned, one of the horses stretched out in the ditch, and his companion kicking gloriously. It seems that the animals on being left to themselves had approached the ditch, tempted by the turf that bordered the lane, where they capped the climax by overturning the vehicle. So we were obliged to put down the corpse, set the coach to right, and make ourselves masters of the horses, all that took so long that the morning had dawned when we again saw the outskirts of London.

We were a sorry looking party. The coachman was hatless, with his face, hair, and clothes bedaubed with mire. Ernest and myself were in no better plight. Merval and Cone were the most respectable-looking of all; while Mike, who slept soundly beside the ominous sack, was simply a bundle of soaked rags and foul clay. And I swore, with the son of Hibernia, that ‘ Ton me soul, and by the bones of Saint Patrick, I’d niver be catched agin arobbin’ o’ corps-es!’ (Here the memoir ends, I hear you exclaim, reader, and not without justification, ‘ But why isn’t the young girl’s complaint revealed to us ?’ This I cannot answer, as the old doctor has undoubtedly deemed proper to say no more. lam quite in the dark, and as much mystified as you are.— D. W. M.)